Merry Crisis
by Cl2.NaCL
Summary: The drivers of Sodor have a bit to drink. Written in one swoon at thee in the morning.


The engines of Sodor are motherfuckin' grand. Grander than the grand staircase. They got the bright paint, the loud whistles, the ego; and last of all, each respectable engine has an equally as respectable hellbent crew who sold their blood, flesh and souls to the railway. In a hypothetical sense, at least. Don't ask me what I'm doing. I'm just the narrator.

{intermission as narrator sips 4th bottle of stout}

Dark clouds drifted against the black sky, tiny pinpricks of light just managing to squeeze through the void of space having finally made it to earth after millions of years adrift in nothing. That's how the staff of the railway felt- exhausted and dull with the wintertime blues. Ever respectable driver bundled up with his overcoat and scarf, but it still didn't keep Thomas' driver from warming his hands with a steady 'haa' as he trundled into the engine driver's common room.

He was greeted with the other crews, who had all sat down on crates, chairs and pillows around the coal-burning stove as they tried to warm up. The room itself was warm; the friendly hum of the oven filtered through the air, the smell of fresh buttery biscuits making their mouths water. What a nice comfortable atmosphere.

"I don't like this snow," started Thomas' driver as he hung up his uniform jacket and his overcoat, slapping the uniform cap over the bundle. "It makes Thomas try to ditch his snowplough, and then I have to work extra..."

"Tell us all about it." Henry's fireman replied dryly, wringing his hands together and rubbing his face. " 'Tis a pity that we don't get to go home today. I was looking toward to seeing some actually sane people for once..."

The others nodded in agreement. The long-term crew had made a commitment to bond with their engine, to promise them to be there at all hours of the day, and to be there right until the very end...which meant that there was barely any time for a private life. Only a couple of the men in the room were married, but it was also a point that most of the older crew had retired and were now living in a place where they could watch the show fall peacefully, instead of trying to barrel through it like a talking tube on wheels. So that meant that each man in there (minus a couple of female crew who were in the room- they run the black market of the railway) was in his late 20's to early 30's. There were very few staff members with grey hair who worked anymore.

It didn't help that the male to female ratio was something of 5/1, and all of the women of the island seemed to be the same age: mid thirties to early forties. And the last thing was a poor man couldn't pick up a quick shag with a whore either: the 'government' had started to crack down on prostution. This results in some pairs of lads often disappearing for a night, and come the next day everyone knows what happened when one has a smug look painted across his face while the other winces as he sits.

At least the job is a 401K.

"Sometimes," continued the #1 driver, "we need to get smashed. You know, swing-a-still-at-the-fat-controller kind of smashed, he me?"

"Wishful thinking. They're holding the Engine Christmas gathering at the Dieselworks this year. The yard there is a tad bit bigger, and there's plenty of room for us." Henry's fireman replied.

"Even more so of a reason! That place is legitimately warm, but ventilated! Not some odd Victorian-era shed!"

"To be honest," mused James' driver (she was one of the few women), "I think I could smuggle in a couple of cases. You know, the merry buzz? How does that sound?"

"Sounds good..."

Least to say, the drivers have better things to do than get smashed and then bawl their eyes out because of their strenuous job in front of their co-workers. But this is Sodor, dear reader. Anything happens, and for the sake of this fic, it's going to be a bunch of drinking drivers and trains.

Christmas Eve. Steam and diesel alike are chatting away in the yards, which were lit up with gentle lanterns and Christmas lights. Their crew was inside, enjoying a couple of cases of beer and having a merry time. A bone chilling wind swirled around the engines, It they didn't mind, for the vent was blocked by a stack of crates acting as a windbreaker.

Inside, the warm glow of the Dieselworks looked like a hot oven from afar, big bay doors open to attempt to warm the engines es sitting outside. Certain engines were inside, however, like Diesel 19 and Percy. But other than that, the drivers were on their own (for one!).

Thomas' driver found himself curling up in a blanket in some crates and palettes arranged to be like a giant communal davenport. There were hammocks suspended from the overhead walkways, and several people were passed out or just chilling. There were some workmen who had joined as well, and they were familiar with the life of a engine crew.

"Hey, Robert. You're going to make yourself sick." That was Henry's driver (it's worthy to say that he's one of the most responsable of the bunch...), who had sat next to Robert. Robert hated being called Bob. Whoever came you with that deserved to defend through the seven rings of hell.

"The fuck i can!" He retorted, clutching his umpteenth bottle and sipping from it meekly. It was a pity he couldn't find a girl who would tell him these things; or even a family. "Since when do you tell me what to do! I driver Tommie the bloody train! I can do anything!"

"And this is why I don't let you drink-" Henry's driver was cut off as Bob broke down sobbing over the face that he hand almost nothing to confide in, and the life choices he had made for his little blue tank engine.

Henry's driver looked down, his [handsome, grey-streaked] moustache quirking up a bit as he pressed his lips together in a firm line. This was the stage of grief of being a driver: Thomas' driver couldn't go back (legally speaking, of course). So he did what a dad would do, and that was to put an arm around the other and try not to drink himself.


End file.
